The Page of Swords
by glitteratiglue
Summary: The impact of Sito Jaxa's death on the higher decks of the Enterprise. Post-Lower Decks.


**_1. the hierophant_**

Steam rises from his untouched cup of tea. His orders have sent dedicated men and women to their deaths on numerous occasions, more times than he would care to admit.

Duty and honour seem hollow justifications for his actions, even if he can hide behind them easily. There'll be no inquiry, no objection; he was just doing what any Starfleet captain would under the circumstances, to preserve a fragile peace not even the upper echelons of the Federation believe will last.

Try as he might, he is unable to recall the Ensign Sito who spent a year under his command. Instead, he sees the young woman sitting beside her teammates at an academy hearing, eyes cast down, tense to the point where she looked as though she would crawl out of her skin.

He saw the fear in her eyes, the knowledge of what her indiscretion could cost her. What most people would have taken for cowardice, he had recognised as her fear of losing the chance to make a difference, to right the wrongs the Cardassians had wrought upon her people for decades. Like any Bajoran survivor of the camps, the girl had not feared death, and he had exploited that with full knowledge of what he was doing.

At least, he hopes she's dead. The alternative is too horrifying to contemplate, if his stay in the tender care of Gul Madred is anything to go by.

Picard takes a sip of his now-tepid Earl Grey, and wonders when bergamot started to taste like guilt.

**_2. the emperor_**

"Just tell me I did the right thing, Deanna. She was so eager to please and we…how could she have said no?" They're sitting on his couch; her hands are clasped in his while she listens patiently.

Deanna has listened to her fair share of hand wringing from him over the years, but this is different. This time it's not as clear-cut as it should be; they didn't deviate from Starfleet protocol once, followed procedures for informed consent for all parties, and yet he still feels as guilty as all sin.

"I think you know the answer to your question, Will," she says gently. He doesn't feel any better for it. "At the end of the day, she was a Starfleet officer. We know there are risks to what we do."

"She was young, Deanna. Too young to die like that." He looks down, rubs his beard thoughtfully, more for something to do so he won't have to look into those familiar eyes, see the pity and understanding that will wrench him somewhere deep inside.

"I might remind you that you weren't much older than her during the Galon V mission." As a young ensign, Will had gone under cover as an operative to investigate terrorist activities on a fractured planet, been discovered by militants and barely escaped with his life. He hadn't thought much of it at the time, but it could have easily gone the other way.

"True enough." He feels the tentative brush of her mind against his and blinks in spite of himself. They're the closest of friends, so she doesn't feel as though she has to ask any more, but it's intimate in a way that still shocks him every time. He recovers himself quickly, smiles and lets her feel the slight relief her mention of that mission has brought him.

"At least Lavelle has that promotion he wanted so much." He pauses. "He'll make a good officer."

"At the cost of his friend. I didn't mention it before, but he was in love with her. I felt it. She didn't know."

His eyes widen. "Maybe I should have a drink with him after all. The kid probably needs it right now."

"I think a drink with you is probably the last thing he needs." Deanna's smile is a little sad at the edges.

Will grimaces. "Thanks."

He strokes her wrist, and a spark of something passes between them: it's not quite attraction, but it's as close as they get to it these days. Deanna politely extricates herself from his grip, gives his hand an affectionate squeeze and leaves without another word. He replicates another drink, tries not to notice that her goodbyes are becoming much more remote than they used to be.

**_3. the hanged man_**

The well-being of his staff has always been a priority for Geordi; after all, when you're responsible for the most crucial area of the ship after the bridge, anything that might affect their performance is cause for concern.

Taurik bristles at the chief engineer's gentle suggestion to take at least a couple of days off.

"I assure you, Commander, that I am quite capable of performing my duties as normal. That will not be necessary."

The ensign shows no outward signs of distress, but Geordi knows enough not to give up that easily. He engages the junior officer in conversation whenever possible, leaves long pauses and gaps on the off chance he might want to talk about his friend. It's not as if he expects him to, but it seems courteous to at least try; it's no more than he'd do for any colleague when they'd suffered such a loss.

A week later, he's watching Taurik run simulations of the new plasma injectors when the young ensign finally says something.

"Ensign Sito's death was in the service of the Federation; this I can accept. For reasons I cannot explain, however, my thoughts dwell on her."

Geordi carefully maintains a neutral gaze: this is the first hint he's seen that there's something under the surface of Taurik, and he knows any wrong move will cause him to seal away his thoughts and probably do himself more damage in the long run.

"Perhaps it's the nature of her death that preoccupies you," he says, as delicately as he can. "Not knowing what happened can make it hard to find a sense of closure."

Taurik gives him a shrewd look; the unspoken question he can't quite bring himself to ask hangs between them. For all his friendly banter with his officers, Geordi rarely shares any personal details of his life, preferring to keep some things private. Then again, this _is _an unusual situation, and he resigns himself to revealing more than he would perhaps like to, if only to reassure his subordinate.

"Look, I may understand this better than you think. My mother's ship went missing some time ago. No trace was ever found of them. I'll never know what happened to her, but I've had to accept she's gone."

There is an unreadable expression in Taurik's eyes; it could be pity or apathy. Either way, it's uncomfortable. Geordi is the one to break eye contact first, and clears his throat awkwardly.

"I am sorry for your loss, Commander La Forge," the ensign says stiffly.

"Thanks, Taurik." He squeezes the ensign's shoulder and moves off to check the warp core readings.

The exchange has left him introspective, full of thoughts he was sure that he'd left behind after all this time. Five months have passed since his mother and the _Hera_ went missing, but it could have been yesterday for all he cares. Time hasn't made it easier to accept, only to live with it as best he can. The hollow ache deep inside him is back in an instant, the pain as fresh as the moment he heard the news that the _Hera _had been lost.

It's the shadowed side of the wonders that life on a starship can bring, and he's starting to wonder if that's too heavy a price to pay. It's not as if he's ever had great romantic success – _"What happened with that nice girl, Geordi? What was her name?" _his mother used to say – but lately he finds himself less and less interested in the idea of a long-term commitment to someone. What would be the point, when every day he's just one error away from death?

Watching Riker and Troi dance around each other for six years has made him wonder why they don't just admit to themselves what everyone else seems to know, but perhaps it's not such a mystery after all. Maybe he isn't the only one who avoids getting close because it just hurts too much.

Geordi takes a seat, steadies his shaking hand on the console and taps in the commands, his brain on auto-pilot. He breathes in, holds that breath until it's sharp and painful and his chest is heaving with the relief of exhalation.

Time just passes, it doesn't necessarily heal; practised as he is at manipulating the physics of time and space, he knows better than anyone that there's nothing finite about grief.

**_4. the high priestess_**

To say Deanna didn't expect to see Taurik in her office would be putting it mildly. The serious Vulcan engineer folds his hands deliberately, places them on his lap. She hardly has to reach out to sense his emotions, because they hit her full on in a confused mix of grief, anger and shame. It's the last one she feels the most keenly: Taurik's shame at being unable to achieve full emotional control.

"I find that I" -his tone lowers just a shade, before he regains his composure- "have the need to discuss certain aspects regarding Ensign Sito's death."

"That's perfectly understandable, Taurik."

He looks distinctly uncomfortable (he's not so much showing it as radiating it emotionally), and swallows hard.

"It is not our way. I have completed kolinahr twice in my life, successfully. And yet I am struggling to contain my feelings. I find myself with many questions regarding her death, questions I will never know the answers to."

"What questions do you have?" There's an awkward silence, because he's very much aware that as a senior officer, she may well hold the answers to some of those questions, but of course would never be allowed to tell him.

She sighs inwardly; it's in these moments she finds it most difficult to balance the demands of her rank with her counselling role. Deanna is still not sure how the myth persists that Vulcans are unemotional. In her experience, their emotions are so powerful, so raw that it takes effort not to be overwhelmed by them. Her calm, practised face shows nothing of her inner struggle, nor does she let on to Taurik how much anguish she can feel pouring from him. She thinks he probably knows anyway; after all, her empathic ability is common knowledge.

Deanna listens, and hopes that will be enough.

**_5. the empress _**

Beverly watches Alyssa stare forlornly at the small gold band on her forefinger, knowing every inch how she feels: that it isn't right to feel joy, to want to celebrate in the face of such great loss. She'd been ecstatic after Andrew's proposal, but that had faded instantly when they heard the news.

She can't bear to tell her young protégé that no matter how many friends and colleagues and patients she loses, it never gets easier. Beverly treats their wounds and illnesses, and when it's not enough, holds their hands and comforts them while they die; often alone and afraid and with nobody else. The nature of starship duty makes it unlikely that a critically ill patient will be able to die with their loved ones; there's a loneliness in people's last moments that haunts her more than any grisly injury or alien pathogen she's ever had to deal with.

Sometimes Beverly wonders if that's part of the reason she's been having fewer breakfasts in the captain's quarters of late. The carefully drawn lines of their relationship could blur so easily, especially because she _wants…_no, she never thinks about that because it hurts. It's easier to pretend. To pretend she doesn't see the light in Jean-Luc's eyes when she appears at the door, or the way his breath catches when they both reach for the same scone and his fingers brush hers.

Tapping in a familiar pattern on the replicator, she says, "Computer, two lemon teas."

Alyssa frowns. "But I need to catalogue the new batch of hyposprays I made up."

"Not right now. We're going to sit and drink tea and you're going to tell me _everything _about the proposal. I need details."

Taking the proffered cup of tea, Alyssa smiles. "I wouldn't want to disobey a direct order from a superior officer."

Beverly winks, settles herself on the nearest biobed. "And that, Alyssa, is why you're a lieutenant now."

**_6. the hermit_**

He does not show feelings openly, as befits the countenance of a warrior. On the inside he wears his vulnerability like a brand, feels it in every one of the thirty-three vertebrae that are not his own; a weakness that, as a Klingon, he knows he should never have overcome.

Ensign Sito had the potential to become one of the most promising officers he had ever trained. He wishes he had told her that, but instead he settles for running her favourite calisthenics program.

"Computer, increase difficulty to level three."

Metal meets holographic flesh, the bat'leth severing limb and bone with deadly efficiency. Ignoring the pain, muscle spasms and exhaustion, he fights; taking pride in the strength and ferocity that honours his ancestors.

After some time, he looks up and finds Lieutenant Lavelle standing there. He lowers his weapon, breathing heavily, and wipes the sweat from his brow.

The young man blinks, clearly startled by the feral look in the Klingon's eyes. Worf does his best to arrange his features into what would appear to be a neutral, human-appropriate expression.

"Lieutenant Lavelle. Would you care to join me?"

"I would." He's clutching a gin'tak spear that he looks ill at ease with, but there's something in his face that's more than determination, more than focus; it's enough to pique Worf's interest.

Stepping into Lavelle's space, he bares his teeth, allows himself to be grudgingly impressed when the officer maintains eye contact; but there's an emptiness there that makes him pause. He should stop this; wanting to kill and maim to dull the pain of grief is far from a healthy response.

Of course, it's an impulse he recognises only too well–-after K'Ehleyr's death, he spent more time in here than he did on the bridge-–and who is he to judge?

"We begin. Computer, level four."

He has to give Lavelle some credit; he lasts longer than most of the officers who attempt calisthenics at this level, even if he can't quite match Commander Riker as a sparring partner (Worf considers Riker's skill with a bat'leth worthy of most Klingons, not that he would ever tell him that).

**_7. the magician_**

Recent observations of the crew have indicated some perplexing behaviour that his positronic matrix is unable to make sense of. Commander Riker appears distracted, brooding in the wake of the death of an ensign he had not appeared to take much notice of prior to her demise. Furthermore, the Captain does not show his usual enthusiasm for discussing the finer points of Shakespearean tragedy; Data senses it is not the time to mention that.

"I do not understand, Geordi," he says quietly, while they are going over repairs to the main sensor array. "Several crew members have died this year on the ship, and yet Ensign Sito's demise seems to have provoked a much stronger reaction in the wider crew than any of their deaths did."

His friend exhales. "Sometimes, Data, it's about what a person's death represents. She was idealistic, hardworking, smart, probably would have had a long and distinguished career in Starfleet. Her death reminds us that there can be a high cost to the Federation ideals we swore to uphold."

"I believe I understand that aspect."

Tasha Yar's death replays in his mind with crystalline sharpness. He does not feel anything.

* * *

**The placeholders refer to cards from the Major Arcana suit of the Tarot deck; I used the ones that I felt best suited each character. If you're interested as to why I chose them, go ahead and look it up ;).**


End file.
